Every day, the cars and trucks speed by past the donut shop where some guy got shot in the butt about twenty years ago, the shop where you can get Doritos nachos, a turkey sandwich on French roll, cherry Icee, or a bag of donut holes, the shop where students think they can cut class for one or two hours, only to realize that every other day, the assistant principal, the one who used to be a student at the school across the street, will be buying a bagel with cream cheese and tomato or a  bag of cheddar and sour cream Ruffles and give you that look.  Today, the front of the donut shop is more crowded than the store itself: dark guy with bug eyes in filthy gray sweatshirt, chunky dude with pencil-thin goatee and sideburns, cut so thin they look painted, skinny fool with the bad acne on both sides of his face in the white Raiders jersey, and short guy in striped button-down shirt. Everyone just pretending they can see through the cars like glass, pretending the assistant principal and security guard staring them down are invisible, standing, not smiling, hands in pockets, eyes to the front.  Until the pimp clomps by in high-heeled platform boots and a brown poncho with two big horse heads on the front, like the ones you get at the pulga in San Jose, or on a street corner in Oakland or Hayward, struts by, large sunglasses covering his thin face.  The guys all stare at him like they’ve seen a ghost. Pimp man looks at the guy in the striped button down and says, “How are you?”   Striped-shirt is so freaked out that he cannot say a word or give the head nod.  Across the street, the principal and security laugh and laugh, and share the gossip over their walkie-talkies.